It’s one of my favorite things to do on a lazy Saturday morning, peruse the poetry section of the used bookstore. My fingers lovingly graze past the worn edges until a new volume catches my interest and I flip through the pages lost, lingering as I lean against the dusty shelf. Yesterday the volume that fell into my path left me feeling as if I were a Peeping Tom and yet…it found its way into my stack of purchases as I could not leave it behind for another. We discard that which no longer serves us but somewhere, somehow perhaps it always lives on.
I smiled when I saw the small golden book of “Love Poems of Rumi” Only slightly worn I eagerly opened the cover and there I saw the flowing inscription. “To my dearest love, Merry Christmas. You dance inside my chest. Where no one sees you, but sometimes I do and that sight becomes this. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Emily